Free The Unwilling Warlord by Lawrence Watt-Evans Page A

they are, silly! Come on, right now; I know Shirrin wants to meet you, especially.”
    “She does?” Even when he remembered who Shirrin was — one of Lura’s sisters, and therefore a princess — Sterren could not imagine why she would particularly want to meet him.
    “Yes, she does. Come on!”
    Sterren glanced helplessly around at the room. He had no idea what his position was relative to this little terror of a princess; certainly, she must outrank him, but would her youth affect her authority to order him about?
    He couldn’t be sure of that. Reluctantly, he followed her as she marched out of the room.
    Once in the hallway, Alder and Dogal fell in step behind him, and together the four of them tramped down the six flights of stairs to the door of the throne room. He stopped there to catch his breath while Lura waited impatiently.
    They did not enter the throne room, but turned aside at the last moment and headed down a short corridor and through an unmarked door of age-darkened oak. Beyond was an antechamber, panelled in smoke-stained wood and furnished with heavy velvet-upholstered benches; Lura led Sterren directly through this, and through another door.
    This gave into a sunny little sitting room, and as Sterren entered, Lura leading him by the hand, he glimpsed the inhabitants leaping to their feet.
    He found himself facing two women and a girl a few years younger than himself, all richly dressed, all standing and staring at him.
    “Shirrin, look who I found!” Lura announced.
    The girl blushed bright red and glanced about as if looking for some way to escape. Seeing none, she stared defiantly back at Sterren, her cheeks crimson.
    The older woman looked reprovingly at Sterren’s guide. “Lura,” she said, “watch your manners.”
    The younger woman simply stood, silently gazing down her nose at Sterren. It was quite obvious that she had noticed his attire and didn’t think much of it.
    Or maybe she didn’t think much of him in any case; Sterren couldn’t be sure. He had the distinct impression, however, that the woman would have sniffed with disdain if sniffing were not perhaps a trifle vulgar.
    He smiled politely.
    “Hello,” he said. “I’m Sterren of Ethshar — Sterren, Ninth Warlord, they call me.”
    “My lord Sterren,” the older woman said, smiling in return, “what a pleasure to meet you! I’m Ashassa, formerly of Thanoria, and these are my daughters, Nissitha,” with a nod toward the younger woman, “and Shirrin,” with a nod toward the blushing girl. “Lura you have already met, I take it.”
    “Yes,” Sterren said, “she introduced herself.” He realized, with a twinge of dismay, that he was speaking to the Queen of Semma, and had presumably just come barging into the royal family’s private quarters.
    At that thought, he glanced around quickly.
    The room was pleasant enough; a floor of square-cut white stone was partly covered by brightly-hued carpets, and white-painted paneling covered the walls on three sides. The fourth side was mostly window, the glass panes arranged in ornate floral patterns and the leading picked out with red and white paint. Several couches stood handy, all covered in red velvet, and a few small tables of white marble and black iron were scattered about.
    Nothing was extraordinarily luxurious, however. Ster­ren had seen rooms of similar size and appointments, though never in any style quite like this one, back in Ethshar.
    The queen was nodding. “I’m afraid Lura can be somewhat impetuous,” she said. “Of course, we’ve all been looking forward to meeting you, our long-lost cousin.”
    “A very distant cousin, of course,” Nissitha interjected, with a meaningful glance at Sterren’s tunic.
    “Lura said that you wanted to meet me,” Sterren ac­knowledged. “She mentioned Shirrin in particular, though I don’t . . .”
    He was interrupted by a shriek from Princess Shirrin. The red had faded somewhat from her cheeks, but now it flooded